


Spindleweed and Laurel

by Sneaky_Apostate



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Mage Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Pining Solas, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26269786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sneaky_Apostate/pseuds/Sneaky_Apostate
Summary: “Oh,” Evelyn muttered. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”Solas raised an eyebrow as he took in her appearance, and understood why she’d been slinking through dark corridors in the middle of the night.The Inquisitor was covered head to toe in a thick, green paste.
Relationships: Solas/Female Trevelyan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Spindleweed and Laurel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tejaswrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tejaswrites/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy!

It was too late for the world to be awake, but Solas found something appealing in the silence. 

He was seated cross-legged by the rotunda wall, steadily working away at the edge of Empress Celene’s navy gown on his fresco. Above him, there was the occasional slide of paper - other owls in the night keeping silent in their studies - but this was otherwise the finest hour to use his work to reflect and relax. 

It was also in these precious moments of peace that he felt the deepest loss; these very walls were once lined with magic and mana, and the remaining castle - pitifully impressive to the people of this time - was stale and bare. 

The very essence of the castle had recognised him, he knew, but he’d been more shocked by how readily it had taken to the Inquisitor. She was a mage, of course, but Solas was expecting it to remain nothing but bleached bones for a human. Instead, the castle had welcomed her with open arms; absorbing and imbuing itself with a warmth that was entirely derived from Evelyn. 

He paused at that thought, glancing at the rough edge of the Empress' ballgown; Evelyn had danced her way to the Orlesian court and they, despite all their convoluted social mores and disdain for mages, had been utterly enchanted with the newly-dubbed Inquisitor. 

An old voice, sly and curled in the way only a queen’s could be, rang in the ancient recesses of his memory. 

_My, my, but you have made ripples, haven’t you?_ She had told him, golden eyes gleaming. _I cannot decide if that befits wisdom...or pride._

He shut his eyes, leaning back from his fresco and indulging in a moment of mourning. It was always in this silence of the evening that he finally allowed himself to creak open that memory door - even if it was just a peak. 

Solas reached out a hand, brushing his palm against the bare wall of the rotunda. It was faint - invisible to all but himself, no doubt - but within the bones of Tarasyl'an Te'las, he felt Evelyn’s warmth and the touch of her magic. 

In these moments of silence and loneliness, he was soothed by his weakness. 

He pulled away quite suddenly - firmly letting his hand fall to his lap - as he heard the sound of the nearby door opening. Schooling his expression, Solas glanced to the side to see the Inquisitor herself shuffling through the dimly-lit hallway. 

She stopped in her tracks as they locked eyes, and she blinked owlishly at him. 

“Oh,” Evelyn muttered. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.” 

He raised an eyebrow as he took in her appearance, and understood why she’d been slinking through dark corridors in the middle of the night. 

The Inquisitor was covered head to toe in a thick, green paste. 

She squirmed a little under his gaze, and he was silent as he tried to register the scene. 

“It was a bet,” Evelyn mumbled, adamantly staring now at the wall opposite him. “I lost.” 

“Evidently,” Solas replied, wiping his hands gently against his legs and rising to his feet. “Sera’s doing, I’d imagine.” 

She nodded and shuffled further into the light, and as she came closer, he caught the edge of the _smell_ of the paste. His brow rose further, and Evelyn sighed miserably. 

“Yeah, I’ve got a few more hours to go before this dries and I can peel it off,” she said, poking at her cheek and wincing as she inhaled. “And take a very strong, scented bath.” 

He hummed, stepping forward despite the smell. 

“I’ve been around plaster all day, Inquisitor,” he said by way of explanation when he saw her worried glance. “I assure you, the smell of particularly pungent herbs does little to deter me.” 

She gave a little grin through the paste, and he couldn’t hide the way a thrill ran through his chest before he squashed it. He strode over towards his desk, carefully cleaning his hands with a rag away from the various manuscripts that he’d been gradually accumulating. 

“And how are you planning to exact your revenge?” Solas asked, allowing the hint of dryness into his voice. 

“Nettles,” Evelyn replied without hesitation; deadpan and with narrowed eyes. “In her unmentionables.” 

Face slightly obscured from the light, Solas was unable to hide the fond quirk of his lips. 

“A ruthless punishment,” he said, before he straightened up. “Quite unlike you.” 

Her lips turned downwards and she gestured up and down her green body. 

“I’m probably going to get a _rash_ ,” she groaned, glaring down at her pasted hand in disdain. 

He couldn’t help a small chuckle, approaching her - never minding the smell - and reaching out to take her hand. Trying to play the cursory healer, Solas steeled his resolve; ignoring the warmth he felt seeping through him at her touch - it was her gift, it was in the very essence of her magic, something invasive in the most welcome of ways that had even seeped into the very bones of Tarasyl'an Te'las around them. Everything about her was alarmingly _magnetic_ and Solas, fool that he was, had long ago become another of her casualties. 

He cleared his throat - and his thoughts - and examined the paste; the smell was from the spindleweed, but the colouring was from the prophet’s laurel. Solas could see her watching him, eyes slightly blown wide but certainly not panicked in any way - and an old _pride_ within him preened at the yearning in her gaze before he snuffed it out. 

“There will be no rash,” he said softly in conclusion, cradling her hand in his palm as though every one of her touches was something precious and scarce. “If anything, this should be quite soothing for your skin - smell aside.” 

There was a moment of silence, in which Evelyn seemed to be struggling to formulate words. With a small shake of her head, she tried to hide her sheepishness with a grin. 

“The smelly paste is actually good for me?” She asked, giving a breathy - and shaky - laugh. “Guess Sera likes me.” 

Unbidden, he could not catch his words. 

“She’d be a fool not to,” Solas murmured, and then shut his eyes with a regretful sigh. 

Despite the paste covering her skin, he knew she was flushed red. 

“Oh,” she said, the word almost entirely a rush of air. “If I didn’t resemble a pickle right now, I might’ve...asked you to elaborate.” She turned her face to the side, instinctively trying to hide a blush that he couldn’t see. “As it is, I fear I feel a little bit _too_ visually unappealing to go down that road tonight.” 

He couldn’t help his fond smile. 

“I don’t think you could ever be unappealing,” he replied, indulging himself once more. “But I do agree that that is, perhaps, a discussion for another evening.” 

He released her hand, but rather than step away, he raised his palms to cup the sides of her cheeks, and even through the paste, he could feel the burn of her blush. 

“For now,” Solas said, the hint of an old pride seeping through, “I shall merely lesson another of your burdens.” 

With a practised hand, he dipped into the familiar pool of his magic, moulded it to his wishes and cast it along the woman before him. The paste on her skin lost its moisture, drying rapidly under his fade-kissed touch, and her eyes widened at his unconventional skill and precision. 

_Careful, old wolf_ , a sly and internal thought stopped him from outright disintegrating the paste himself. _Cannot let your lies show_. 

He pulled back, leaving the entirety of the paste covering her skin solid enough for her to peel in private. It galled an old arrogance inside him to leave his work unfinished - to leave her with even the mildest of irritations when he knew he could take away her problems with a mere gesture. But it was too risky, especially considering she was a mage, and could potentially recognise that there was something too unusual about the way he spun the Fade to his will. 

As it was, she raised her hand to peer at the paste. 

“That’s amazing,” Evelyn said in hushed tones, eyes crinkled in a grin. “Oh, Sera’s going to be _so_ disappointed.” She met his gaze, and softened into a smile. “Thank you, Solas. Where did you learn how to do that?” 

He stepped away, clasping his hands behind his back - the image of the humble apostate once more - and tilted his head. 

“I am glad to be of service,” Solas replied. “It was a simple trick I acquired in one of my”-

“Journeys into the Fade,” Evelyn interrupted him with a wry grin. “Of course, I should’ve known.” 

There was a pang of something regretful in his chest - a naïve and impossible thought of taking her into his dreamscapes of old worlds and magics - but he pushed it down with a nod. 

“There are many things to be learned in the places you least expect,” was all he said, cryptic but not dishonest. 

She raised an eyebrow. 

“So I’ve found,” she replied, eyes dropping to the floor as she squirmed at the tension in the air. “Well, I’d better make my escape upstairs; get this stuff off me in a bath.” She took a few steps to the doorway, but gave him a quick and gentle glance back. “Good night, Solas.” 

He let himself give a small smile in return. 

“Good night,” Solas murmured, watching her turn and shut the door behind her before he added, “Evelyn.” 

Even as he returned to his silence and loss in the dimly-lit rotunda, the remnant of her touch left a ghost of warmth on his skin. 

He was slipping, he knew, and shut his eyes with a sigh. His hand clenched around nothingness. 

_The Dread Wolf,_ he thought, _nothing more than an old fool._

  
  
  



End file.
